Part 1 — Cambridge

Part 2 — Sawston

Part 3 — Wiltshire

Part 1 — Cambridge

I

“The cow is there,” said Ansell, lighting a match and holding it out

over the carpet. No one spoke. He waited till the end of the match fell

off. Then he said again, “She is there, the cow. There, now.”

“You have not proved it,” said a voice.

“I have proved it to myself.”

“I have proved to myself that she isn’t,” said the voice. “The cow is

_not_ there.” Ansell frowned and lit another match.

“She’s there for me,” he declared. “I don’t care whether she’s there

for you or not. Whether I’m in Cambridge or Iceland or dead, the cow

will be there.”

It was philosophy. They were discussing the existence of objects. Do

they exist only when there is some one to look at them? Or have they

a real existence of their own? It is all very interesting, but at the

same time it is difficult. Hence the cow. She seemed to make things

easier. She was so familiar, so solid, that surely the truths that she

illustrated would in time become familiar and solid also. Is the cow

there or not? This was better than deciding between objectivity and

subjectivity. So at Oxford, just at the same time, one was asking,

“What do our rooms look like in the vac.?”

“Look here, Ansell. I’m there—in the meadow—the cow’s there. You’re

there—the cow’s there. Do you agree so far?” “Well?”

“Well, if you go, the cow stops; but if I go, the cow goes. Then what

will happen if you stop and I go?”

Several voices cried out that this was quibbling.

“I know it is,” said the speaker brightly, and silence descended again,

while they tried honestly to think the matter out.

Rickie, on whose carpet the matches were being dropped, did not like

to join in the discussion. It was too difficult for him. He could

not even quibble. If he spoke, he should simply make himself a fool.

He preferred to listen, and to watch the tobacco-smoke stealing out

past the window-seat into the tranquil October air. He could see the

court too, and the college cat teasing the college tortoise, and the

kitchen-men with supper-trays upon their heads. Hot food for one—that

must be for the geographical don, who never came in for Hall; cold food

for three, apparently at half-a-crown a head, for some one he did not

know; hot food, _à la carte _—obviously for the ladies haunting the next

staircase; cold food for two, at two shillings—going to Ansell’s rooms

for himself and Ansell, and as it passed under the lamp he saw that it

was meringues again. Then the bedmakers began to arrive, chatting to

each other pleasantly, and he could hear Ansell’s bedmaker say, “Oh

dang!” when she found she had to lay Ansell’s tablecloth; for there was

not a breath stirring. The great elms were motionless, and seemed still

in the glory of midsummer, for the darkness hid the yellow blotches on

their leaves, and their outlines were still rounded against the tender

sky. Those elms were Dryads—so Rickie believed or pretended, and the

line between the two is subtler than we admit. At all events they were

lady trees, and had for generations fooled the college statutes by

their residence in the haunts of youth.

But what about the cow? He returned to her with a start, for this would

never do. He also would try to think the matter out. Was she there or

not? The cow. There or not. He strained his eyes into the night.

Either way it was attractive. If she was there, other cows were there

too. The darkness of Europe was dotted with them, and in the far East

their flanks were shining in the rising sun. Great herds of them stood

browsing in pastures where no man came nor need ever come, or plashed

knee-deep by the brink of impassable rivers. And this, moreover, was

the view of Ansell. Yet Tilliard’s view had a good deal in it. One

might do worse than follow Tilliard, and suppose the cow not to be

there unless oneself was there to see her. A cowless world, then,

stretched round him on every side. Yet he had only to peep into a

field, and, click! it would at once become radiant with bovine life.

Suddenly he realized that this, again, would never do. As usual, he

had missed the whole point, and was overlaying philosophy with gross

and senseless details. For if the cow was not there, the world and the

fields were not there either. And what would Ansell care about sunlit

flanks or impassable streams? Rickie rebuked his own groveling soul,

and turned his eyes away from the night, which had led him to such

absurd conclusions.

The fire was dancing, and the shadow of Ansell, who stood close up to

it, seemed to dominate the little room. He was still talking, or rather

jerking, and he was still lighting matches and dropping their ends upon

the carpet. Now and then he would make a motion with his feet as if he

were running quickly backward upstairs, and would tread on the edge of

the fender, so that the fire-irons went flying and the buttered-bun

dishes crashed against each other in the hearth. The other philosophers

were crouched in odd shapes on the sofa and table and chairs, and one,

who was a little bored, had crawled to the piano and was timidly trying

the Prelude to Rhinegold with his knee upon the soft pedal. The air was

heavy with good tobacco-smoke and the pleasant warmth of tea, and as

Rickie became more sleepy the events of the day seemed to float one by

one before his acquiescent eyes. In the morning he had read Theocritus,

whom he believed to be the greatest of Greek poets; he had lunched with

a merry don and had tasted Zwieback biscuits; then he had walked with

people he liked, and had walked just long enough; and now his room was

full of other people whom he liked, and when they left he would go

and have supper with Ansell, whom he liked as well as any one. A year

ago he had known none of these joys. He had crept cold and friendless

and ignorant out of a great public school, preparing for a silent and

solitary journey, and praying as a highest favour that he might be left

alone. Cambridge had not answered his prayer. She had taken and soothed

him, and warmed him, and had laughed at him a little, saying that he

must not be so tragic yet awhile, for his boyhood had been but a dusty

corridor that led to the spacious halls of youth. In one year he had

made many friends and learnt much, and he might learn even more if he

could but concentrate his attention on that cow.

The fire had died down, and in the gloom the man by the piano ventured

to ask what would happen if an objective cow had a subjective calf.

Ansell gave an angry sigh, and at that moment there was a tap on the

door.

“Come in!” said Rickie.

The door opened. A tall young woman stood framed in the light that fell

from the passage.

“Ladies!” whispered every-one in great agitation.

“Yes?” he said nervously, limping towards the door (he was rather

lame). “Yes? Please come in. Can I be any good—”

“Wicked boy!” exclaimed the young lady, advancing a gloved finger into

the room. “Wicked, wicked boy!”

He clasped his head with his hands.

“Agnes! Oh how perfectly awful!”

“Wicked, intolerable boy!” She turned on the electric light. The

philosophers were revealed with unpleasing suddenness. “My goodness,

a tea-party! Oh really, Rickie, you are too bad! I say again: wicked,

abominable, intolerable boy! I’ll have you horsewhipped. If you

please”—she turned to the symposium, which had now risen to its

feet “If you please, he asks me and my brother for the week-end. We

accept. At the station, no Rickie. We drive to where his old lodgings

were—Trumpery Road or some such name—and he’s left them. I’m furious,

and before I can stop my brother, he’s paid off the cab and there we

are stranded. I’ve walked—walked for miles. Pray can you tell me what

is to be done with Rickie?”

“He must indeed be horsewhipped,” said Tilliard pleasantly. Then he

made a bolt for the door.

“Tilliard—do stop—let me introduce Miss Pembroke—don’t all go!” For

his friends were flying from his visitor like mists before the sun.

“Oh, Agnes, I am so sorry; I’ve nothing to say. I simply forgot you

were coming, and everything about you.”

“Thank you, thank you! And how soon will you remember to ask where

Herbert is?”

“Where is he, then?”

“I shall not tell you.”

“But didn’t he walk with you?”

“I shall not tell, Rickie. It’s part of your punishment. You are not

really sorry yet. I shall punish you again later.”

She was quite right. Rickie was not as much upset as he ought to have

been. He was sorry that he had forgotten, and that he had caused his

visitors inconvenience. But he did not feel profoundly degraded, as a

young man should who has acted discourteously to a young lady. Had he

acted discourteously to his bedmaker or his gyp, he would have minded

just as much, which was not polite of him.

“First, I’ll go and get food. Do sit down and rest. Oh, let me

introduce—”

Ansell was now the sole remnant of the discussion party. He still

stood on the hearthrug with a burnt match in his hand. Miss Pembroke’s

arrival had never disturbed him.

“Let me introduce Mr. Ansell—Miss Pembroke.”

There came an awful moment—a moment when he almost regretted that he

had a clever friend. Ansell remained absolutely motionless, moving

neither hand nor head. Such behaviour is so unknown that Miss Pembroke

did not realize what had happened, and kept her own hand stretched out

longer than is maidenly.

“Coming to supper?” asked Ansell in low, grave tones.

“I don’t think so,” said Rickie helplessly.

Ansell departed without another word.

“Don’t mind us,” said Miss Pembroke pleasantly. “Why shouldn’t you keep

your engagement with your friend? Herbert’s finding lodgings,—that’s

why he’s not here,—and they’re sure to be able to give us some dinner.

What jolly rooms you’ve got!”

“Oh no—not a bit. I say, I am sorry. I am sorry. I am most awfully

sorry.”

“What about?”

“Ansell—” Then he burst forth. “Ansell isn’t a gentleman. His father’s

a draper. His uncles are farmers. He’s here because he’s so clever—just

on account of his brains. Now, sit down. He isn’t a gentleman at all.”

And he hurried off to order some dinner.

“What a snob the boy is getting!” thought Agnes, a good deal mollified.

It never struck her that those could be the words of affection—that

Rickie would never have spoken them about a person whom he disliked.

Nor did it strike her that Ansell’s humble birth scarcely explained

the quality of his rudeness. She was willing to find life full of

trivialities. Six months ago and she might have minded; but now—she

cared not what men might do unto her, for she had her own splendid

lover, who could have knocked all these unhealthy undergraduates into a

cocked-hat. She dared not tell Gerald a word of what had happened: he

might have come up from wherever he was and half killed Ansell. And she

determined not to tell her brother either, for her nature was kindly,

and it pleased her to pass things over.

She took off her gloves, and then she took off her ear-rings and began

to admire them. These ear-rings were a freak of hers—her only freak.

She had always wanted some, and the day Gerald asked her to marry him

she went to a shop and had her ears pierced. In some wonderful way

she knew that it was right. And he had given her the rings—little

gold knobs, copied, the jeweller told them, from something prehistoric

and he had kissed the spots of blood on her handkerchief. Herbert, as

usual, had been shocked.

“I can’t help it,” she cried, springing up. “I’m not like other girls.”

She began to pace about Rickie’s room, for she hated to keep quiet.

There was nothing much to see in it. The pictures were not attractive,

nor did they attract her—school groups, Watts’ “Sir Percival,” a dog

running after a rabbit, a man running after a maid, a cheap brown

Madonna in a cheap green frame—in short, a collection where one

mediocrity was generally cancelled by another. Over the door there hung

a long photograph of a city with waterways, which Agnes, who had never

been to Venice, took to be Venice, but which people who had been to

Stockholm knew to be Stockholm. Rickie’s mother, looking rather sweet,

was standing on the mantelpiece. Some more pictures had just arrived

from the framers and were leaning with their faces to the wall, but she

did not bother to turn them round. On the table were dirty teacups, a

flat chocolate cake, and Omar Khayyam, with an Oswego biscuit between

his pages. Also a vase filled with the crimson leaves of autumn. This

made her smile.

Then she saw her host’s shoes: he had left them lying on the sofa.

Rickie was slightly deformed, and so the shoes were not the same size,

and one of them had a thick heel to help him towards an even walk.

“Ugh!” she exclaimed, and removed them gingerly to the bedroom. There

she saw other shoes and boots and pumps, a whole row of them, all

deformed. “Ugh! Poor boy! It is too bad. Why shouldn’t he be like other

people? This hereditary business is too awful.” She shut the door with

a sigh. Then she recalled the perfect form of Gerald, his athletic

walk, the poise of his shoulders, his arms stretched forward to receive

her. Gradually she was comforted.

“I beg your pardon, miss, but might I ask how many to lay?” It was the

bedmaker, Mrs. Aberdeen.

“Three, I think,” said Agnes, smiling pleasantly. “Mr. Elliot’ll be

back in a minute. He has gone to order dinner.

“Thank you, miss.”

“Plenty of teacups to wash up!”

“But teacups is easy washing, particularly Mr. Elliot’s.”

“Why are his so easy?”

“Because no nasty corners in them to hold the dirt. Mr. Anderson—he’s

below—has crinkly noctagons, and one wouldn’t believe the difference.

It was I bought these for Mr. Elliot. His one thought is to save one

trouble. I never seed such a thoughtful gentleman. The world, I say,

will be the better for him.” She took the teacups into the gyp room,

and then returned with the tablecloth, and added, “if he’s spared.”

“I’m afraid he isn’t strong,” said Agnes.

“Oh, miss, his nose! I don’t know what he’d say if he knew I mentioned

his nose, but really I must speak to someone, and he has neither father

nor mother. His nose! It poured twice with blood in the Long.”

“Yes?”

“It’s a thing that ought to be known. I assure you, that little

room!... And in any case, Mr. Elliot’s a gentleman that can ill afford

to lose it. Luckily his friends were up; and I always say they’re more

like brothers than anything else.”

“Nice for him. He has no real brothers.”

“Oh, Mr. Hornblower, he is a merry gentleman, and Mr. Tilliard too!

And Mr. Elliot himself likes his romp at times. Why, it’s the merriest

staircase in the buildings! Last night the bedmaker from W said to me,

‘What are you doing to my gentlemen? Here’s Mr. Ansell come back ’ot

with his collar flopping.’ I said, ‘And a good thing.’ Some bedders

keep their gentlemen just so; but surely, miss, the world being what it

is, the longer one is able to laugh in it the better.”

Bedmakers have to be comic and dishonest. It is expected of them. In a

picture of university life it is their only function. So when we meet

one who has the face of a lady, and feelings of which a lady might be

proud, we pass her by.

“Yes?” said Miss Pembroke, and then their talk was stopped by the

arrival of her brother.

“It is too bad!” he exclaimed. “It is really too bad.”

“Now, Bertie boy, Bertie boy! I’ll have no peevishness.”

“I am not peevish, Agnes, but I have a full right to be. Pray, why did

he not meet us? Why did he not provide rooms? And pray, why did you

leave me to do all the settling? All the lodgings I knew are full, and

our bedrooms look into a mews. I cannot help it. And then—look here!

It really is too bad.” He held up his foot like a wounded dog. It was

dripping with water.

“Oho! This explains the peevishness. Off with it at once. It’ll be

another of your colds.”

“I really think I had better.” He sat down by the fire and daintily

unlaced his boot. “I notice a great change in university tone. I can

never remember swaggering three abreast along the pavement and charging

inoffensive visitors into a gutter when I was an undergraduate. One of

the men, too, wore an Eton tie. But the others, I should say, came from

very queer schools, if they came from any schools at all.”

Mr. Pembroke was nearly twenty years older than his sister, and had

never been as handsome. But he was not at all the person to knock

into a gutter, for though not in orders, he had the air of being

on the verge of them, and his features, as well as his clothes,

had the clerical cut. In his presence conversation became pure and

colourless and full of understatements, and—just as if he was a real

clergyman—neither men nor boys ever forgot that he was there. He had

observed this, and it pleased him very much. His conscience permitted

him to enter the Church whenever his profession, which was the

scholastic, should demand it.

“No gutter in the world’s as wet as this,” said Agnes, who had peeled

off her brother’s sock, and was now toasting it at the embers on a pair

of tongs.

“Surely you know the running water by the edge of the Trumpington road?

It’s turned on occasionally to clear away the refuse—a most primitive

idea. When I was up we had a joke about it, and called it the ‘Pem.’”

“How complimentary!”

“You foolish girl,—not after me, of course. We called it the ‘Pem’

because it is close to Pembroke College. I remember—” He smiled a

little, and twiddled his toes. Then he remembered the bedmaker, and

said, “My sock is now dry. My sock, please.”

“Your sock is sopping. No, you don’t!” She twitched the tongs away from

him. Mrs. Aberdeen, without speaking, fetched a pair of Rickie’s socks

and a pair of Rickie’s shoes.

“Thank you; ah, thank you. I am sure Mr. Elliot would allow it.”

Then he said in French to his sister, “Has there been the slightest

sign of Frederick?”

“Now, do call him Rickie, and talk English. I found him here. He had

forgotten about us, and was very sorry. Now he’s gone to get some

dinner, and I can’t think why he isn’t back.”

Mrs. Aberdeen left them.

“He wants pulling up sharply. There is nothing original in

absent-mindedness. True originality lies elsewhere. Really, the lower

classes have no _nous_. However can I wear such deformities?” For he

had been madly trying to cram a right-hand foot into a left-hand shoe.

“Don’t!” said Agnes hastily. “Don’t touch the poor fellow’s things.”

The sight of the smart, stubby patent leather made her almost feel

faint. She had known Rickie for many years, but it seemed so dreadful

and so different now that he was a man. It was her first great contact

with the abnormal, and unknown fibres of her being rose in revolt

against it. She frowned when she heard his uneven tread upon the stairs.

“Agnes—before he arrives—you ought never to have left me and gone

to his rooms alone. A most elementary transgression. Imagine the

unpleasantness if you had found him with friends. If Gerald—”

Rickie by now had got into a fluster. At the kitchens he had lost his

head, and when his turn came—he had had to wait—he had yielded his

place to those behind, saying that he didn’t matter. And he had wasted

more precious time buying bananas, though he knew that the Pembrokes

were not partial to fruit. Amid much tardy and chaotic hospitality

the meal got under way. All the spoons and forks were anyhow, for

Mrs. Aberdeen’s virtues were not practical. The fish seemed never to

have been alive, the meat had no kick, and the cork of the college

claret slid forth silently, as if ashamed of the contents. Agnes was

particularly pleasant. But her brother could not recover himself. He

still remembered their desolate arrival, and he could feel the waters

of the Pem eating into his instep.

“Rickie,” cried the lady, “are you aware that you haven’t congratulated

me on my engagement?”

Rickie laughed nervously, and said, “Why no! No more I have.”

“Say something pretty, then.”

“I hope you’ll be very happy,” he mumbled. “But I don’t know anything

about marriage.”

“Oh, you awful boy! Herbert, isn’t he just the same? But you do know

something about Gerald, so don’t be so chilly and cautious. I’ve just

realized, looking at those groups, that you must have been at school

together. Did you come much across him?”

“Very little,” he answered, and sounded shy. He got up hastily, and

began to muddle with the coffee.

“But he was in the same house. Surely that’s a house group?”

“He was a prefect.” He made his coffee on the simple system. One had a

brown pot, into which the boiling stuff was poured. Just before serving

one put in a drop of cold water, and the idea was that the grounds fell

to the bottom.

“Wasn’t he a kind of athletic marvel? Couldn’t he knock any boy or

master down?”

“Yes.”

“If he had wanted to,” said Mr. Pembroke, who had not spoken for some

time.

“If he had wanted to,” echoed Rickie. “I do hope, Agnes, you’ll be most

awfully happy. I don’t know anything about the army, but I should think

it must be most awfully interesting.”

Mr. Pembroke laughed faintly.

“Yes, Rickie. The army is a most interesting profession,—the

profession of Wellington and Marlborough and Lord Roberts; a most

interesting profession, as you observe. A profession that may mean

death—death, rather than dishonour.”

“That’s nice,” said Rickie, speaking to himself. “Any profession may

mean dishonour, but one isn’t allowed to die instead. The army’s

different. If a soldier makes a mess, it’s thought rather decent of

him, isn’t it, if he blows out his brains? In the other professions it

somehow seems cowardly.”

“I am not competent to pronounce,” said Mr. Pembroke, who was not

accustomed to have his schoolroom satire commented on. “I merely know

that the army is the finest profession in the world. Which reminds me,

Rickie—have you been thinking about yours?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

“Now, Herbert, don’t bother him. Have another meringue.”

“But, Rickie, my dear boy, you’re twenty. It’s time you thought. The

Tripos is the beginning of life, not the end. In less than two years

you will have got your B.A. What are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re M.A., aren’t you?” asked Agnes; but her brother proceeded—

“I have seen so many promising, brilliant lives wrecked simply on

account of this—_not settling soon enough_. My dear boy, you must think.

Consult your tastes if possible—but think. You have not a moment to

lose. The Bar, like your father?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t like that at all.”

“I don’t mention the Church.”

“Oh, Rickie, do be a clergyman!” said Miss Pembroke. “You’d be simply

killing in a wide-awake.”

He looked at his guests hopelessly. Their kindness and competence

overwhelmed him. “I wish I could talk to them as I talk to myself,” he

thought. “I’m not such an ass when I talk to myself. I don’t believe,

for instance, that quite all I thought about the cow was rot.” Aloud he

said, “I’ve sometimes wondered about writing.”

“Writing?” said Mr. Pembroke, with the tone of one who gives everything

its trial. “Well, what about writing? What kind of writing?”

“I rather like,”—he suppressed something in his throat,—“I rather

like trying to write little stories.”

“Why, I made sure it was poetry!” said Agnes. “You’re just the boy for

poetry.”

“I had no idea you wrote. Would you let me see something? Then I could

judge.”

The author shook his head. “I don’t show it to any one. It isn’t

anything. I just try because it amuses me.”

“What is it about?”

“Silly nonsense.”

“Are you ever going to show it to any one?”

“I don’t think so.”

Mr. Pembroke did not reply, firstly, because the meringue he was eating

was, after all, Rickie’s; secondly, because it was gluey and stuck his

jaws together. Agnes observed that the writing was really a very good

idea: there was Rickie’s aunt,—she could push him.

“Aunt Emily never pushes any one; she says they always rebound and

crush her.”

“I only had the pleasure of seeing your aunt once. I should have

thought her a quite uncrushable person. But she would be sure to help

you.”

“I couldn’t show her anything. She’d think them even sillier than they

are.”

“Always running yourself down! There speaks the artist!”

“I’m not modest,” he said anxiously. “I just know they’re bad.”

Mr. Pembroke’s teeth were clear of meringue, and he could refrain no

longer. “My dear Rickie, your father and mother are dead, and you often

say your aunt takes no interest in you. Therefore your life depends on

yourself. Think it over carefully, but settle, and having once settled,

stick. If you think that this writing is practicable, and that you

could make your living by it—that you could, if needs be, support a

wife—then by all means write. But you must work. Work and drudge.

Begin at the bottom of the ladder and work upwards.”

Rickie’s head drooped. Any metaphor silenced him. He never thought of

replying that art is not a ladder—with a curate, as it were, on the

first rung, a rector on the second, and a bishop, still nearer heaven,

at the top. He never retorted that the artist is not a bricklayer at

all, but a horseman, whose business it is to catch Pegasus at once, not

to practise for him by mounting tamer colts. This is hard, hot, and

generally ungraceful work, but it is not drudgery. For drudgery is not

art, and cannot lead to it.

“Of course I don’t really think about writing,” he said, as he poured

the cold water into the coffee. “Even if my things ever were decent, I

don’t think the magazines would take them, and the magazines are one’s

only chance. I read somewhere, too, that Marie Corelli’s about the only

person who makes a thing out of literature. I’m certain it wouldn’t pay

me.”

“I never mentioned the word ‘pay,’” said Mr. Pembroke uneasily.

“You must not consider money. There are ideals too.”

“I have no ideals.”

“Rickie!” she exclaimed. “Horrible boy!”

“No, Agnes, I have no ideals.” Then he got very red, for it was a

phrase he had caught from Ansell, and he could not remember what came

next.

“The person who has no ideals,” she exclaimed, “is to be pitied.”

“I think so too,” said Mr. Pembroke, sipping his coffee. “Life without

an ideal would be like the sky without the sun.”

Rickie looked towards the night, wherein there now twinkled innumerable

stars—gods and heroes, virgins and brides, to whom the Greeks have

given their names.

“Life without an ideal—” repeated Mr. Pembroke, and then stopped, for

his mouth was full of coffee grounds. The same affliction had overtaken

Agnes. After a little jocose laughter they departed to their lodgings,

and Rickie, having seen them as far as the porter’s lodge, hurried,

singing as he went, to Ansell’s room, burst open the door, and said,

“Look here! Whatever do you mean by it?”

“By what?” Ansell was sitting alone with a piece of paper in front of

him. On it was a diagram—a circle inside a square, inside which was

again a square.

“By being so rude. You’re no gentleman, and I told her so.” He slammed

him on the head with a sofa cushion. “I’m certain one ought to be

polite, even to people who aren’t saved.” (“Not saved” was a phrase

they applied just then to those whom they did not like or intimately

know.) “And I believe she is saved. I never knew any one so always

good-tempered and kind. She’s been kind to me ever since I knew her. I

wish you’d heard her trying to stop her brother: you’d have certainly

come round. Not but what he was only being nice as well. But she is

really nice. And I thought she came into the room so beautifully. Do

you know—oh, of course, you despise music—but Anderson was playing

Wagner, and he’d just got to the part where they sing

‘Rheingold!

Rheingold!’

and the sun strikes into the waters, and the music, which up to then

has so often been in E flat—”

“Goes into D sharp. I have not understood a single word, partly because

you talk as if your mouth was full of plums, partly because I don’t

know whom you’re talking about.” “Miss Pembroke—whom you saw.”

“I saw no one.”

“Who came in?”

“No one came in.”

“You’re an ass!” shrieked Rickie. “She came in. You saw her come in.

She and her brother have been to dinner.”

“You only think so. They were not really there.”

“But they stop till Monday.”

“You only think that they are stopping.”

“But—oh, look here, shut up! The girl like an empress—”

“I saw no empress, nor any girl, nor have you seen them.”

“Ansell, don’t rag.”

“Elliot, I never rag, and you know it. She was not really there.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Rickie exclaimed, “I’ve got you. You

say—or was it Tilliard?—no, _you_ say that the cow’s there. Well—there

these people are, then. Got you. Yah!”

“Did it never strike you that phenomena may be of two kinds: _one_,

those which have a real existence, such as the cow; _two_, those which

are the subjective product of a diseased imagination, and which, to our

destruction, we invest with the semblance of reality? If this never

struck you, let it strike you now.”

Rickie spoke again, but received no answer. He paced a little up

and down the sombre room. Then he sat on the edge of the table and

watched his clever friend draw within the square a circle, and within

the circle a square, and inside that another circle, and inside that

another square.

“Why will you do that?”

No answer.

“Are they real?”

“The inside one is—the one in the middle of everything, that there’s

never room enough to draw.”

II

A little this side of Madingley, to the left of the road, there is a

secluded dell, paved with grass and planted with fir-trees. It could

not have been worth a visit twenty years ago, for then it was only a

scar of chalk, and it is not worth a visit at the present day, for the

trees have grown too thick and choked it. But when Rickie was up, it

chanced to be the brief season of its romance, a season as brief for a

chalk-pit as a man—its divine interval between the bareness of boyhood

and the stuffiness of age. Rickie had discovered it in his second

term, when the January snows had melted and left fiords and lagoons of

clearest water between the inequalities of the floor. The place looked

as big as Switzerland or Norway—as indeed for the moment it was—and

he came upon it at a time when his life too was beginning to expand.

Accordingly the dell became for him a kind of church—a church where

indeed you could do anything you liked, but where anything you did

would be transfigured. Like the ancient Greeks, he could even laugh at

his holy place and leave it no less holy. He chatted gaily about it,

and about the pleasant thoughts with which it inspired him; he took

his friends there; he even took people whom he did not like. “_Procul

este, profani!_” exclaimed a delighted aesthete on being introduced to

it. But this was never to be the attitude of Rickie. He did not love

the vulgar herd, but he knew that his own vulgarity would be greater if

he forbade it ingress, and that it was not by preciosity that he would

attain to the intimate spirit of the dell. Indeed, if he had agreed

with the aesthete, he would possibly not have introduced him. If the

dell was to bear any inscription, he would have liked it to be “This

way to Heaven,” painted on a sign-post by the high-road, and he did not

realize till later years that the number of visitors would not thereby

have sensibly increased.

On the blessed Monday that the Pembrokes left, he walked out here with

three friends. It was a day when the sky seemed enormous. One cloud, as

large as a continent, was voyaging near the sun, whilst other clouds

seemed anchored to the horizon, too lazy or too happy to move. The sky

itself was of the palest blue, paling to white where it approached the

earth; and the earth, brown, wet, and odorous, was engaged beneath it

on its yearly duty of decay. Rickie was open to the complexities of

autumn; he felt extremely tiny—extremely tiny and extremely important;

and perhaps the combination is as fair as any that exists. He hoped

that all his life he would never be peevish or unkind.

“Elliot is in a dangerous state,” said Ansell. They had reached the

dell, and had stood for some time in silence, each leaning against a

tree. It was too wet to sit down.

“How’s that?” asked Rickie, who had not known he was in any state at

all. He shut up Keats, whom he thought he had been reading, and slipped

him back into his coat-pocket. Scarcely ever was he without a book.

“He’s trying to like people.”

“Then he’s done for,” said Widdrington. “He’s dead.”

“He’s trying to like Hornblower.”

The others gave shrill agonized cries.

“He wants to bind the college together. He wants to link us to the

beefy set.”

“I do like Hornblower,” he protested. “I don’t try.”

“And Hornblower tries to like you.”

“That part doesn’t matter.”

“But he does try to like you. He tries not to despise you. It is

altogether a most public-spirited affair.”

“Tilliard started them,” said Widdrington. “Tilliard thinks it such a

pity the college should be split into sets.”

“Oh, Tilliard!” said Ansell, with much irritation. “But what can you

expect from a person who’s eternally beautiful? The other night we had

been discussing a long time, and suddenly the light was turned on.

Every one else looked a sight, as they ought. But there was Tilliard,

sitting neatly on a little chair, like an undersized god, with not a

curl crooked. I should say he will get into the Foreign Office.”

“Why are most of us so ugly?” laughed Rickie.

“It’s merely a sign of our salvation—merely another sign that the

college is split.”

“The college isn’t split,” cried Rickie, who got excited on this

subject with unfailing regularity. “The college is, and has been, and

always will be, one. What you call the beefy set aren’t a set at all.

They’re just the rowing people, and naturally they chiefly see each

other; but they’re always nice to me or to any one. Of course, they

think us rather asses, but it’s quite in a pleasant way.”

“That’s my whole objection,” said Ansell. “What right have they to

think us asses in a pleasant way? Why don’t they hate us? What right

has Hornblower to smack me on the back when I’ve been rude to him?”

“Well, what right have you to be rude to him?”

“Because I hate him. You think it is so splendid to hate no one. I

tell you it is a crime. You want to love every one equally, and that’s

worse than impossible—it’s wrong. When you denounce sets, you’re really

trying to destroy friendship.”

“I maintain,” said Rickie—it was a verb he clung to, in the hope that

it would lend stability to what followed—“I maintain that one can like

many more people than one supposes.”

“And I maintain that you hate many more people than you pretend.”

“I hate no one,” he exclaimed with extraordinary vehemence, and the

dell re-echoed that it hated no one.

“We are obliged to believe you,” said Widdrington, smiling a little;

“but we are sorry about it.”

“Not even your father?” asked Ansell.

Rickie was silent.

“Not even your father?”

The cloud above extended a great promontory across the sun. It only lay

there for a moment, yet that was enough to summon the lurking coldness

from the earth.

“Does he hate his father?” said Widdrington, who had not known. “Oh,

good!”

“But his father’s dead. He will say it doesn’t count.”

“Still, it’s something. Do you hate yours?”

Ansell did not reply. Rickie said: “I say, I wonder whether one ought

to talk like this?”

“About hating dead people?”

“Yes—”

“Did you hate your mother?” asked Widdrington.

Rickie turned crimson.

“I don’t see Hornblower’s such a rotter,” remarked the other man, whose

name was James.

“James, you are diplomatic,” said Ansell. “You are trying to tide over

an awkward moment. You can go.”

Widdrington was crimson too. In his wish to be sprightly he had used

words without thinking of their meanings. Suddenly he realized that

“father” and “mother” really meant father and mother—people whom he

had himself at home. He was very uncomfortable, and thought Rickie had

been rather queer. He too tried to revert to Hornblower, but Ansell

would not let him. The sun came out, and struck on the white ramparts

of the dell. Rickie looked straight at it. Then he said abruptly—

“I think I want to talk.”

“I think you do,” replied Ansell.

“Shouldn’t I be rather a fool if I went through Cambridge without

talking? It’s said never to come so easy again. All the people are dead

too. I can’t see why I shouldn’t tell you most things about my birth

and parentage and education.”

“Talk away. If you bore us, we have books.”

With this invitation Rickie began to relate his history. The reader who

has no book will be obliged to listen to it.

• • • • •

Some people spend their lives in a suburb, and not for any urgent

reason. This had been the fate of Rickie. He had opened his eyes

to filmy heavens, and taken his first walk on asphalt. He had seen

civilization as a row of semi-detached villas, and society as a state

in which men do not know the men who live next door. He had himself

become part of the grey monotony that surrounds all cities. There was

no necessity for this—it was only rather convenient to his father.

Mr. Elliot was a barrister. In appearance he resembled his son, being

weakly and lame, with hollow little cheeks, a broad white band of

forehead, and stiff impoverished hair. His voice, which he did not

transmit, was very suave, with a fine command of cynical intonation. By

altering it ever so little he could make people wince, especially if

they were simple or poor. Nor did he transmit his eyes. Their peculiar

flatness, as if the soul looked through dirty window-panes, the

unkindness of them, the cowardice, the fear in them, were to trouble

the world no longer.

He married a girl whose voice was beautiful. There was no caress

in it yet all who heard it were soothed, as though the world held

some unexpected blessing. She called to her dogs one night over

invisible waters, and he, a tourist up on the bridge, thought “that

is extraordinarily adequate.” In time he discovered that her figure,

face, and thoughts were adequate also, and as she was not impossible

socially, he married her. “I have taken a plunge,” he told his family.

The family, hostile at first, had not a word to say when the woman was

introduced to them; and his sister declared that the plunge had been

taken from the opposite bank.

Things only went right for a little time. Though beautiful without and

within, Mrs. Elliot had not the gift of making her home beautiful; and

one day, when she bought a carpet for the dining-room that clashed,

he laughed gently, said he “really couldn’t,” and departed. Departure

is perhaps too strong a word. In Mrs. Elliot’s mouth it became, “My

husband has to sleep more in town.” He often came down to see them,

nearly always unexpectedly, and occasionally they went to see him.

“Father’s house,” as Rickie called it, only had three rooms, but these

were full of books and pictures and flowers; and the flowers, instead

of being squashed down into the vases as they were in mummy’s house,

rose gracefully from frames of lead which lay coiled at the bottom,

as doubtless the sea serpent has to lie, coiled at the bottom of the

sea. Once he was let to lift a frame out—only once, for he dropped

some water on a creton. “I think he’s going to have taste,” said Mr.

Elliot languidly. “It is quite possible,” his wife replied. She had not

taken off her hat and gloves, nor even pulled up her veil. Mr. Elliot

laughed, and soon afterwards another lady came in, and they—went away.

“Why does father always laugh?” asked Rickie in the evening when he and

his mother were sitting in the nursery.

“It is a way of your father’s.”

“Why does he always laugh at me? Am I so funny?” Then after a pause,

“You have no sense of humour, have you, mummy?”

Mrs. Elliot, who was raising a thread of cotton to her lips, held it

suspended in amazement.

“You told him so this afternoon. But I have seen you laugh.” He nodded

wisely. “I have seen you laugh ever so often. One day you were laughing

alone all down in the sweet peas.”

“Was I?”

“Yes. Were you laughing at me?”

“I was not thinking about you. Cotton, please—a reel of No. 50 white

from my chest of drawers. Left hand drawer. Now which is your left

hand?”

“The side my pocket is.”

“And if you had no pocket?”

“The side my bad foot is.”

“I meant you to say, ‘the side my heart is,’” said Mrs. Elliot, holding

up the duster between them. “Most of us—I mean all of us—can feel

on one side a little watch, that never stops ticking. So even if you

had no bad foot you would still know which is the left. No. 50 white,

please. No; I’ll get it myself.” For she had remembered that the dark

passage frightened him.

These were the outlines. Rickie filled them in with the slowness and

the accuracy of a child. He was never told anything, but he discovered

for himself that his father and mother did not love each other, and

that his mother was lovable. He discovered that Mr. Elliot had dubbed

him Rickie because he was rickety, that he took pleasure in alluding

to his son’s deformity, and was sorry that it was not more serious

than his own. Mr. Elliot had not one scrap of genius. He gathered the

pictures and the books and the flower-supports mechanically, not in

any impulse of love. He passed for a cultured man because he knew how

to select, and he passed for an unconventional man because he did not

select quite like other people. In reality he never did or said or

thought one single thing that had the slightest beauty or value. And in

time Rickie discovered this as well.

The boy grew up in great loneliness. He worshipped his mother, and

she was fond of him. But she was dignified and reticent, and pathos,

like tattle, was disgusting to her. She was afraid of intimacy, in

case it led to confidences and tears, and so all her life she held

her son at a little distance. Her kindness and unselfishness knew

no limits, but if he tried to be dramatic and thank her, she told

him not to be a little goose. And so the only person he came to know

at all was himself. He would play Halma against himself. He would

conduct solitary conversations, in which one part of him asked and

another part answered. It was an exciting game, and concluded with

the formula: “Good-bye. Thank you. I am glad to have met you. I hope

before long we shall enjoy another chat.” And then perhaps he would

sob for loneliness, for he would see real people—real brothers, real

friends—doing in warm life the things he had pretended. “Shall I ever

have a friend?” he demanded at the age of twelve. “I don’t see how.

They walk too fast. And a brother I shall never have.”

(“No loss,” interrupted Widdrington.

“But I shall never have one, and so I quite want one, even now.”)

When he was thirteen Mr. Elliot entered on his illness. The pretty

rooms in town would not do for an invalid, and so he came back to

his home. One of the first consequences was that Rickie was sent to

a public school. Mrs. Elliot did what she could, but she had no hold

whatever over her husband.

“He worries me,” he declared. “He’s a joke of which I have got tired.”

“Would it be possible to send him to a private tutor’s?”

“No,” said Mr. Elliot, who had all the money. “Coddling.”

“I agree that boys ought to rough it; but when a boy is lame and very

delicate, he roughs it sufficiently if he leaves home. Rickie can’t

play games. He doesn’t make friends. He isn’t brilliant. Thinking it

over, I feel that as it’s like this, we can’t ever hope to give him the

ordinary education. Perhaps you could think it over too.”

“No.”

“I am sure that things are best for him as they are. The day-school

knocks quite as many corners off him as he can stand. He hates it, but

it is good for him. A public school will not be good for him. It is too

rough. Instead of getting manly and hard, he will—”

“My head, please.”

Rickie departed in a state of bewildered misery, which was scarcely

ever to grow clearer.

Each holiday he found his father more irritable, and a little weaker.

Mrs. Elliot was quickly growing old. She had to manage the servants, to

hush the neighbouring children, to answer the correspondence, to paper

and re-paper the rooms—and all for the sake of a man whom she did not

like, and who did not conceal his dislike for her. One day she found

Rickie tearful, and said rather crossly, “Well, what is it this time?”

He replied, “Oh, mummy, I’ve seen your wrinkles—your grey hair—I’m

unhappy.”

Sudden tenderness overcame her, and she cried, “My darling, what does

it matter? Whatever does it matter now?”

He had never known her so emotional. Yet even better did he remember

another incident. Hearing high voices from his father’s room, he went

upstairs in the hope that the sound of his tread might stop them. Mrs.

Elliot burst open the door, and seeing him, exclaimed, “My dear! If you

please, he’s hit me.” She tried to laugh it off, but a few hours later

he saw the bruise which the stick of the invalid had raised upon his

mother’s hand.

God alone knows how far we are in the grip of our bodies. He alone can

judge how far the cruelty of Mr. Elliot was the outcome of extenuating

circumstances. But Mrs. Elliot could accurately judge of its extent.

At last he died. Rickie was now fifteen, and got off a whole week’s

school for the funeral. His mother was rather strange. She was much

happier, she looked younger, and her mourning was as unobtrusive as

convention permitted. All this he had expected. But she seemed to

be watching him, and to be extremely anxious for his opinion on any

subject—more especially on his father. Why? At last he saw that she

was trying to establish confidence between them. But confidence cannot

be established in a moment. They were both shy. The habit of years

was upon them, and they alluded to the death of Mr. Elliot as an

irreparable loss.

“Now that your father has gone, things will be very different.”

“Shall we be poorer, mother?”

“No.”

“Oh!”

“But naturally things will be very different.”

“Yes, naturally.”

“For instance, your poor father liked being near London, but I almost

think we might move. Would you like that?”

“Of course, mummy.” He looked down at the ground. He was not accustomed

to being consulted, and it bewildered him.

“Perhaps you might like quite a different life better?”

He giggled.

“It’s a little difficult for me,” said Mrs. Elliot, pacing vigorously

up and down the room, and more and more did her black dress seem a

mockery. “In some ways you ought to be consulted: nearly all the money

is left to you, as you must hear some time or other. But in other ways

you’re only a boy. What am I to do?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, appearing more helpless and unhelpful than

he really was.

“For instance, would you like me to arrange things exactly as I like?”

“Oh do!” he exclaimed, thinking this a most brilliant suggestion.

“The very nicest thing of all.” And he added, in his half-pedantic,

half-pleasing way, “I shall be as wax in your hands, mamma.”

She smiled. “Very well, darling. You shall be.” And she pressed him

lovingly, as though she would mould him into something beautiful.

For the next few days great preparations were in the air. She went to

see his father’s sister, the gifted and vivacious Aunt Emily. They were

to live in the country—somewhere right in the country, with grass and

trees up to the door, and birds singing everywhere, and a tutor. For he

was not to go back to school. Unbelievable! He was never to go back to

school, and the head-master had written saying that he regretted the

step, but that possibly it was a wise one.

It was raw weather, and Mrs. Elliot watched over him with ceaseless

tenderness. It seemed as if she could not do too much to shield him and

to draw him nearer to her.

“Put on your greatcoat, dearest,” she said to him.

“I don’t think I want it,” answered Rickie, remembering that he was now

fifteen.

“The wind is bitter. You ought to put it on.”

“But it’s so heavy.”

“Do put it on, dear.”

He was not very often irritable or rude, but he answered, “Oh, I shan’t

catch cold. I do wish you wouldn’t keep on bothering.” He did not

catch cold, but while he was out his mother died. She only survived

her husband eleven days, a coincidence which was recorded on their

tombstone.

• • • • •

Such, in substance, was the story which Rickie told his friends as

they stood together in the shelter of the dell. The green bank at the

entrance hid the road and the world, and now, as in spring, they could

see nothing but snow-white ramparts and the evergreen foliage of the

firs. Only from time to time would a beech leaf flutter in from the

woods above, to comment on the waning year, and the warmth and radiance

of the sun would vanish behind a passing cloud.

About the greatcoat he did not tell them, for he could not have spoken

of it without tears.

III

Mr. Ansell, a provincial draper of moderate prosperity, ought by

rights to have been classed not with the cow, but with those phenomena

that are not really there. But his son, with pardonable illogicality,

excepted him. He never suspected that his father might be the

subjective product of a diseased imagination. From his earliest years

he had taken him for granted, as a most undeniable and lovable fact.

To be born one thing and grow up another—Ansell had accomplished

this without weakening one of the ties that bound him to his home.

The rooms above the shop still seemed as comfortable, the garden

behind it as gracious, as they had seemed fifteen years before, when

he would sit behind Miss Appleblossom’s central throne, and she, like

some allegorical figure, would send the change and receipted bills

spinning away from her in little boxwood balls. At first the young man

had attributed these happy relations to his own tact. But in time he

perceived that the tact was all on the side of his father. Mr. Ansell

was not merely a man of some education; he had what no education can

bring—the power of detecting what is important. Like many fathers, he

had spared no expense over his boy,—he had borrowed money to start

him at a rapacious and fashionable private school; he had sent him to

tutors; he had sent him to Cambridge. But he knew that all this was

not the important thing. The important thing was freedom. The boy must

use his education as he chose, and if he paid his father back it would

certainly not be in his own coin. So when Stewart said, “At Cambridge,

can I read for the Moral Science Tripos?” Mr. Ansell had only replied,

“This philosophy—do you say that it lies behind everything?”

“Yes, I think so. It tries to discover what is good and true.”

“Then, my boy, you had better read as much of it as you can.”

And a year later: “I’d like to take up this philosophy seriously, but I

don’t feel justified.”

“Why not?”

“Because it brings in no return. I think I’m a great philosopher, but

then all philosophers think that, though they don’t dare to say so.

But, however great I am, I shan’t earn money. Perhaps I shan’t ever be

able to keep myself. I shan’t even get a good social position. You’ve

only to say one word, and I’ll work for the Civil Service. I’m good

enough to get in high.”

Mr. Ansell liked money and social position. But he knew that there is

a more important thing, and replied, “You must take up this philosophy

seriously, I think.”

“Another thing—there are the girls.”

“There is enough money now to get Mary and Maud as good husbands as

they deserve.” And Mary and Maud took the same view. It was in this

plebeian household that Rickie spent part of the Christmas vacation.

His own home, such as it was, was with the Silts, needy cousins of

his father’s, and combined to a peculiar degree the restrictions of

hospitality with the discomforts of a boarding-house. Such pleasure as

he had outside Cambridge was in the homes of his friends, and it was

a particular joy and honour to visit Ansell, who, though as free from

social snobbishness as most of us will ever manage to be, was rather

careful when he drove up to the facade of his shop.

“I like our new lettering,” he said thoughtfully. The words “Stewart

Ansell” were repeated again and again along the High Street—curly gold

letters that seemed to float in tanks of glazed chocolate.

“Rather!” said Rickie. But he wondered whether one of the bonds that

kept the Ansell family united might not be their complete absence of

taste—a surer bond by far than the identity of it. And he wondered

this again when he sat at tea opposite a long row of crayons—Stewart

as a baby, Stewart as a small boy with large feet, Stewart as a larger

boy with smaller feet, Mary reading a book whose leaves were as thick

as eiderdowns. And yet again did he wonder it when he woke with a

gasp in the night to find a harp in luminous paint throbbing and

glowering at him from the adjacent wall. “Watch and pray” was written

on the harp, and until Rickie hung a towel over it the exhortation was

partially successful.

It was a very happy visit. Miss Appleblosssom—who now acted as

housekeeper—had met him before, during her never-forgotten expedition

to Cambridge, and her admiration of University life was as shrill and

as genuine now as it had been then. The girls at first were a little

aggressive, for on his arrival he had been tired, and Maud had taken it

for haughtiness, and said he was looking down on them. But this passed.

They did not fall in love with him, nor he with them, but a morning was

spent very pleasantly in snow-balling in the back garden. Ansell was

rather different to what he was in Cambridge, but to Rickie not less

attractive. And there was a curious charm in the hum of the shop, which

swelled into a roar if one opened the partition door on a market-day.

“Listen to your money!” said Rickie. “I wish I could hear mine. I wish

my money was alive.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Mine’s dead money. It’s come to me through about six dead

people—silently.”

“Getting a little smaller and a little more respectable each time, on

account of the death-duties.”

“It needed to get respectable.”

“Why? Did your people, too, once keep a shop?”

“Oh, not as bad as that! They only swindled. About a hundred years ago

an Elliot did something shady and founded the fortunes of our house.”

“I never knew any one so relentless to his ancestors. You make up for

your soapiness towards the living.”

“You’d be relentless if you’d heard the Silts, as I have, talk about ‘a

fortune, small perhaps, but unsoiled by trade!’ Of course Aunt Emily is

rather different. Oh, goodness me! I’ve forgotten my aunt. She lives

not so far. I shall have to call on her.”

Accordingly he wrote to Mrs. Failing, and said he should like to pay

his respects. He told her about the Ansells, and so worded the letter

that she might reasonably have sent an invitation to his friend.

She replied that she was looking forward to their _tête-à-tête_.

“You mustn’t go round by the trains,” said Mr. Ansell. “It means

changing at Salisbury. By the road it’s no great way. Stewart shall

drive you over Salisbury Plain, and fetch you too.”

“There’s too much snow,” said Ansell.

“Then the girls shall take you in their sledge.”

“That I will,” said Maud, who was not unwilling to see the inside of

Cadover. But Rickie went round by the trains.

“We have all missed you,” said Ansell, when he returned. “There is a

general feeling that you are no nuisance, and had better stop till the

end of the vac.”

This he could not do. He was bound for Christmas to the Silts—“as a

_real_ guest,” Mrs. Silt had written, underlining the word “real”

twice. And after Christmas he must go to the Pembrokes.

“These are no reasons. The only real reason for doing a thing is

because you want to do it. I think the talk about ‘engagements’ is

cant.”

“I think perhaps it is,” said Rickie. But he went. Never had the turkey

been so athletic, or the plum-pudding tied into its cloth so tightly.

Yet he knew that both these symbols of hilarity had cost money, and

it went to his heart when Mr. Silt said in a hungry voice, “Have you

thought at all of what you want to be? No? Well, why should you? You

have no need to be anything.” And at dessert: “I wonder who Cadover

goes to? I expect money will follow money. It always does.” It was with

a guilty feeling of relief that he left for the Pembrokes’.

The Pembrokes lived in an adjacent suburb, or rather “sububurb,”—the

tract called Sawston, celebrated for its public school. Their style of

life, however, was not particularly suburban. Their house was small and

its name was Shelthorpe, but it had an air about it which suggested

a certain amount of money and a certain amount of taste. There were

decent water-colours in the drawing-room. Madonnas of acknowledged

merit hung upon the stairs. A replica of the Hermes of Praxiteles—of

course only the bust—stood in the hall with a real palm behind it.

Agnes, in her slap-dash way, was a good housekeeper, and kept the

pretty things well dusted. It was she who insisted on the strip of

brown holland that led diagonally from the front door to the door of

Herbert’s study: boys’ grubby feet should not go treading on her Indian

square. It was she who always cleaned the picture-frames and washed the

bust and the leaves of the palm. In short, if a house could speak—and

sometimes it does speak more clearly than the people who live in

it—the house of the Pembrokes would have said, “I am not quite like

other houses, yet I am perfectly comfortable. I contain works of art

and a microscope and books. But I do not live for any of these things

or suffer them to disarrange me. I live for myself and for the greater

houses that shall come after me. Yet in me neither the cry of money nor

the cry for money shall ever be heard.”

Mr. Pembroke was at the station. He did better as a host than as a

guest, and welcomed the young man with real friendliness.

“We were all coming, but Gerald has strained his ankle slightly, and

wants to keep quiet, as he is playing next week in a match. And,

needless to say, that explains the absence of my sister.”

“Gerald Dawes?”

“Yes; he’s with us. I’m so glad you’ll meet again.”

“So am I,” said Rickie with extreme awkwardness. “Does he remember me?”

“Vividly.”

Vivid also was Rickie’s remembrance of him.

“A splendid fellow,” asserted Mr. Pembroke.

“I hope that Agnes is well.”

“Thank you, yes; she is well. And I think you’re looking more like

other people yourself.”

“I’ve been having a very good time with a friend.”

“Indeed. That’s right. Who was that?”

Rickie had a young man’s reticence. He generally spoke of “a friend,”

“a person I know,” “a place I was at.” When the book of life is

opening, our readings are secret, and we are unwilling to give chapter

and verse. Mr. Pembroke, who was half way through the volume, and had

skipped or forgotten the earlier pages, could not understand Rickie’s

hesitation, nor why with such awkwardness he should pronounce the

harmless dissyllable “Ansell.”

“Ansell? Wasn’t that the pleasant fellow who asked us to lunch?”

“No. That was Anderson, who keeps below. You didn’t see Ansell. The

ones who came to breakfast were Tilliard and Hornblower.”

“Of course. And since then you have been with the Silts. How are they?”

“Very well, thank you. They want to be remembered to you.”

The Pembrokes had formerly lived near the Elliots, and had shown great

kindness to Rickie when his parents died. They were thus rather in the

position of family friends.

“Please remember us when you write.” He added, almost roguishly,

“The Silts are kindness itself. All the same, it must be just a

little—dull, we thought, and we thought that you might like a change.

And of course we are delighted to have you besides. That goes without

saying.”

“It’s very good of you,” said Rickie, who had accepted the invitation

because he felt he ought to.

“Not a bit. And you mustn’t expect us to be otherwise than quiet on the

holidays. There is a library of a sort, as you know, and you will find

Gerald a splendid fellow.”

“Will they be married soon?”

“Oh no!” whispered Mr. Pembroke, shutting his eyes, as if Rickie had

made some terrible _faux pas_. “It will be a very long engagement. He

must make his way first. I have seen such endless misery result from

people marrying before they have made their way.”

“Yes. That is so,” said Rickie despondently, thinking of the Silts.

“It’s a sad unpalatable truth,” said Mr. Pembroke, thinking that the

despondency might be personal, “but one must accept it. My sister and

Gerald, I am thankful to say, have accepted it, though naturally it has

been a little pill.”

Their cab lurched round the corner as he spoke, and the two patients

came in sight. Agnes was leaning over the creosoted garden-gate, and

behind her there stood a young man who had the figure of a Greek

athlete and the face of an English one. He was fair and cleanshaven,

and his colourless hair was cut rather short. The sun was in his eyes,

and they, like his mouth, seemed scarcely more than slits in his

healthy skin. Just where he began to be beautiful the clothes started.

Round his neck went an up-and-down collar and a mauve-and-gold tie,

and the rest of his limbs were hidden by a grey lounge suit, carefully

creased in the right places.

“Lovely! Lovely!” cried Agnes, banging on the gate, “Your train must

have been to the minute.”

“Hullo!” said the athlete, and vomited with the greeting a cloud of

tobacco-smoke. It must have been imprisoned in his mouth some time, for

no pipe was visible.

“Hullo!” returned Rickie, laughing violently. They shook hands.

“Where are you going, Rickie?” asked Agnes. “You aren’t grubby. Why

don’t you stop? Gerald, get the large wicker-chair. Herbert has

letters, but we can sit here till lunch. It’s like spring.”

The garden of Shelthorpe was nearly all in front an unusual and

pleasant arrangement. The front gate and the servants’ entrance were

both at the side, and in the remaining space the gardener had contrived

a little lawn where one could sit concealed from the road by a fence,

from the neighbour by a fence, from the house by a tree, and from the

path by a bush.

“This is the lovers’ bower,” observed Agnes, sitting down on the bench.

Rickie stood by her till the chair arrived.

“Are you smoking before lunch?” asked Mr. Dawes.

“No, thank you. I hardly ever smoke.”

“No vices. Aren’t you at Cambridge now?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your college?”

Rickie told him.

“Do you know Carruthers?”

“Rather!”

“I mean A. P. Carruthers, who got his socker blue.”

“Rather! He’s secretary to the college musical society.”

“A. P. Carruthers?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Dawes seemed offended. He tapped on his teeth, and remarked that

the weather had no business to be so warm in winter. “But it was

fiendish before Christmas,” said Agnes.

He frowned, and asked, “Do you know a man called Gerrish?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

“Do you know James?”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s my year too. He got a blue for hockey his second term.”

“I know nothing about the ’Varsity.”

Rickie winced at the abbreviation “’Varsity.” It was at that time the

proper thing to speak of “the University.”

“I haven’t the time,” pursued Mr. Dawes.

“No, no,” said Rickie politely.

“I had the chance of being an Undergrad, myself, and, by Jove, I’m

thankful I didn’t!”

“Why?” asked Agnes, for there was a pause.

“Puts you back in your profession. Men who go there first, before the

Army, start hopelessly behind. The same with the Stock Exchange or

Painting. I know men in both, and they’ve never caught up the time they

lost in the ’Varsity—unless, of course, you turn parson.”

“I love Cambridge,” said she. “All those glorious buildings, and every

one so happy and running in and out of each other’s rooms all day long.”

“That might make an Undergrad happy, but I beg leave to state it

wouldn’t me. I haven’t four years to throw away for the sake of being

called a ’Varsity man and hobnobbing with Lords.”

Rickie was prepared to find his old schoolfellow ungrammatical and

bumptious, but he was not prepared to find him peevish. Athletes,

he believed, were simple, straightforward people, cruel and brutal

if you like, but never petty. They knocked you down and hurt you,

and then went on their way rejoicing. For this, Rickie thought,

there is something to be said: he had escaped the sin of despising

the physically strong—a sin against which the physically weak must

guard. But here was Dawes returning again and again to the subject

of the University, full of transparent jealousy and petty spite,

nagging, nagging, nagging, like a maiden lady who has not been invited

to a tea-party. Rickie wondered whether, after all, Ansell and the

extremists might not be right, and bodily beauty and strength be signs

of the soul’s damnation.

He glanced at Agnes. She was writing down some orderings for the

tradespeople on a piece of paper. Her handsome face was intent on the

work. The bench on which she and Gerald were sitting had no back,

but she sat as straight as a dart. He, though strong enough to sit

straight, did not take the trouble.

“Why don’t they talk to each other?” thought Rickie.

“Gerald, give this paper to the cook.”

“I can give it to the other slavey, can’t I?”

“She’d be dressing.”

“Well, there’s Herbert.”

“He’s busy. Oh, you know where the kitchen is. Take it to the cook.”

He disappeared slowly behind the tree.

“What do you think of him?” she immediately asked. He murmured civilly.

“Has he changed since he was a schoolboy?”

“In a way.”

“Do tell me all about him. Why won’t you?”

She might have seen a flash of horror pass over Rickie’s face. The

horror disappeared, for, thank God, he was now a man, whom civilization

protects. But he and Gerald had met, as it were, behind the scenes,

before our decorous drama opens, and there the elder boy had done

things to him—absurd things, not worth chronicling separately. An

apple-pie bed is nothing; pinches, kicks, boxed ears, twisted arms,

pulled hair, ghosts at night, inky books, befouled photographs, amount

to very little by themselves. But let them be united and continuous,

and you have a hell that no grown-up devil can devise. Between Rickie

and Gerald there lay a shadow that darkens life more often than we

suppose. The bully and his victim never quite forget their first

relations. They meet in clubs and country houses, and clap one another

on the back; but in both the memory is green of a more strenuous day,

when they were boys together.

He tried to say, “He was the right kind of boy, and I was the wrong

kind.” But Cambridge would not let him smooth the situation over

by self-belittlement. If he had been the wrong kind of boy, Gerald

had been a worse kind. He murmured, “We are different, very,” and

Miss Pembroke, perhaps suspecting something, asked no more. But

she kept to the subject of Mr. Dawes, humorously depreciating her

lover and discussing him without reverence. Rickie laughed, but felt

uncomfortable. When people were engaged, he felt that they should be

outside criticism. Yet here he was criticizing. He could not help it.

He was dragged in.

“I hope his ankle is better.”

“Never was bad. He’s always fussing over something.”

“He plays next week in a match, I think Herbert says.”

“I dare say he does.”

“Shall we be going?”

“Pray go if you like. I shall stop at home. I’ve had enough of cold

feet.”

It was all very colourless and odd.

Gerald returned, saying, “I can’t stand your cook. What’s she want to

ask me questions for? I can’t stand talking to servants. I say, ‘If I

speak to you, well and good’—and it’s another thing besides if she

were pretty.”

“Well, I hope our ugly cook will have lunch ready in a minute,” said

Agnes. “We’re frightfully unpunctual this morning, and I daren’t say

anything, because it was the same yesterday, and if I complain again

they might leave. Poor Rickie must be starved.”

“Why, the Silts gave me all these sandwiches and I’ve never eaten them.

They always stuff one.”

“And you thought you’d better, eh?” said Mr. Dawes, “in case you

weren’t stuffed here.”

Miss Pembroke, who house-kept somewhat economically, looked annoyed.

The voice of Mr. Pembroke was now heard calling from the house,

“Frederick! Frederick! My dear boy, pardon me. It was an important

letter about the Church Defence, otherwise— Come in and see your room.”

He was glad to quit the little lawn. He had learnt too much there. It

was dreadful: they did not love each other. More dreadful even than the

case of his father and mother, for they, until they married, had got on

pretty well. But this man was already rude and brutal and cold: he was

still the school bully who twisted up the arms of little boys, and ran

pins into them at chapel, and struck them in the stomach when they were

swinging on the horizontal bar. Poor Agnes; why ever had she done it?

Ought not somebody to interfere?

He had forgotten his sandwiches, and went back to get them.

Gerald and Agnes were locked in each other’s arms.

He only looked for a moment, but the sight burnt into his brain. The

man’s grip was the stronger. He had drawn the woman on to his knee, was

pressing her, with all his strength, against him. Already her hands

slipped off him, and she whispered, “Don’t you hurt—” Her face had no

expression. It stared at the intruder and never saw him. Then her lover

kissed it, and immediately it shone with mysterious beauty, like some

star.

Rickie limped away without the sandwiches, crimson and afraid. He

thought, “Do such things actually happen?” and he seemed to be looking

down coloured valleys. Brighter they glowed, till gods of pure flame

were born in them, and then he was looking at pinnacles of virgin snow.

While Mr. Pembroke talked, the riot of fair images increased.

They invaded his being and lit lamps at unsuspected shrines. Their

orchestra commenced in that suburban house, where he had to stand aside

for the maid to carry in the luncheon. Music flowed past him like a

river. He stood at the springs of creation and heard the primeval

monotony. Then an obscure instrument gave out a little phrase.

The river continued unheeding. The phrase was repeated and a listener

might know it was a fragment of the Tune of tunes. Nobler instruments

accepted it, the clarionet protected, the brass encouraged, and it rose

to the surface to the whisper of violins. In full unison was Love born,

flame of the flame, flushing the dark river beneath him and the virgin

snows above. His wings were infinite, his youth eternal; the sun was

a jewel on his finger as he passed it in benediction over the world.

Creation, no longer monotonous, acclaimed him, in widening melody, in

brighter radiances. Was Love a column of fire? Was he a torrent of

song? Was he greater than either—the touch of a man on a woman?

It was the merest accident that Rickie had not been disgusted. But this

he could not know.

Mr. Pembroke, when he called the two dawdlers into lunch, was aware of

a hand on his arm and a voice that murmured, “Don’t—they may be happy.”

He stared, and struck the gong. To its music they approached, priest

and high priestess.

“Rickie, can I give these sandwiches to the boot boy?” said the one.

“He would love them.”

“The gong! Be quick! The gong!”

“Are you smoking before lunch?” said the other.

But they had got into heaven, and nothing could get them out of it.

Others might think them surly or prosaic. He knew. He could remember

every word they spoke. He would treasure every motion, every glance of

either, and so in time to come, when the gates of heaven had shut, some

faint radiance, some echo of wisdom might remain with him outside.

As a matter of fact, he saw them very little during his visit. He

checked himself because he was unworthy. What right had he to pry, even

in the spirit, upon their bliss? It was no crime to have seen them

on the lawn. It would be a crime to go to it again. He tried to keep

himself and his thoughts away, not because he was ascetic, but because

they would not like it if they knew. This behaviour of his suited them

admirably. And when any gracious little thing occurred to them—any

little thing that his sympathy had contrived and allowed—they put it

down to chance or to each other.

So the lovers fall into the background. They are part of the distant

sunrise, and only the mountains speak to them. Rickie talks to Mr.

Pembroke, amidst the unlit valleys of our over-habitable world.

IV

Sawston School had been founded by a tradesman in the seventeenth

century. It was then a tiny grammar-school in a tiny town, and the

City Company who governed it had to drive half a day through the woods

and heath on the occasion of their annual visit. In the twentieth

century they still drove, but only from the railway station; and

found themselves not in a tiny town, nor yet in a large one, but

amongst innumerable residences, detached and semi-detached, which

had gathered round the school. For the intentions of the founder had

been altered, or at all events amplified, instead of educating the

“poore of my home,” he now educated the upper classes of England.

The change had taken place not so very far back. Till the nineteenth

century the grammar-school was still composed of day scholars from the

neighbourhood. Then two things happened. Firstly, the school’s property

rose in value, and it became rich. Secondly, for no obvious reason, it

suddenly emitted a quantity of bishops. The bishops, like the stars

from a Roman candle, were all colours, and flew in all directions,

some high, some low, some to distant colonies, one into the Church

of Rome. But many a father traced their course in the papers; many a

mother wondered whether her son, if properly ignited, might not burn

as bright; many a family moved to the place where living and education

were so cheap, where day-boys were not looked down upon, and where

the orthodox and the up-to-date were said to be combined. The school

doubled its numbers. It built new class-rooms, laboratories and a

gymnasium. It dropped the prefix “Grammar.” It coaxed the sons of the

local tradesmen into a new foundation, the “Commercial School,” built

a couple of miles away. And it started boarding-houses. It had not the

gracious antiquity of Eton or Winchester, nor, on the other hand, had

it a conscious policy like Lancing, Wellington, and other purely modern

foundations. Where traditions served, it clung to them. Where new

departures seemed desirable, they were made. It aimed at producing the

average Englishman, and, to a very great extent, it succeeded.

Here Mr. Pembroke passed his happy and industrious life. His technical

position was that of master to a form low down on the Modern Side.

But his work lay elsewhere. He organized. If no organization existed,

he would create one. If one did exist, he would modify it. “An

organization,” he would say, “is after all not an end in itself. It

must contribute to a movement.” When one good custom seemed likely to

corrupt the school, he was ready with another; he believed that without

innumerable customs there was no safety, either for boys or men.

Perhaps he is right, and always will be right. Perhaps each of us

would go to ruin if for one short hour we acted as we thought fit, and

attempted the service of perfect freedom. The school caps, with their

elaborate symbolism, were his; his the many-tinted bathing-drawers,

that showed how far a boy could swim; his the hierarchy of jerseys and

blazers. It was he who instituted Bounds, and call, and the two sorts

of exercise-paper, and the three sorts of caning, and “The Sawtonian,”

a bi-terminal magazine. His plump finger was in every pie. The dome of

his skull, mild but impressive, shone at every master’s meeting. He was

generally acknowledged to be the coming man.

His last achievement had been the organization of the day-boys. They

had been left too much to themselves, and were weak in _esprit de

corps_; they were apt to regard home, not school, as the most important

thing in their lives. Moreover, they got out of their parents’ hands;

they did their preparation any time and some times anyhow. They shirked

games, they were out at all hours, they ate what they should not, they

smoked, they bicycled on the asphalt. Now all was over. Like boarders,

they were to be in at 7:15 P.M., and were not allowed out after unless

with a written order from their parent or guardian; they, too, must

work at fixed hours in the evening, and before breakfast next morning

from 7 to 8. Games were compulsory. They must not go to parties in term

time. They must keep to bounds. Of course the reform was not complete.

It was impossible to control the dieting, though, on a printed

circular, day-parents were implored to provide simple food. And it is

also believed that some mothers disobeyed the rule about preparation,

and allowed their sons to do all the work over-night and have a longer

sleep in the morning. But the gulf between day-boys and boarders was

considerably lessened, and grew still narrower when the day-boys too

were organized into a House with house-master and colours of their own.

“Through the House,” said Mr. Pembroke, “one learns patriotism for

the school, just as through the school one learns patriotism for the

country. Our only course, therefore, is to organize the day-boys into a

House.” The headmaster agreed, as he often did, and the new community

was formed. Mr. Pembroke, to avoid the tongues of malice, had refused

the post of house-master for himself, saying to Mr. Jackson, who taught

the sixth, “You keep too much in the background. Here is a chance for

you.” But this was a failure. Mr. Jackson, a scholar and a student,

neither felt nor conveyed any enthusiasm, and when confronted with his

House, would say, “Well, I don’t know what we’re all here for. Now I

should think you’d better go home to your mothers.” He returned to his

background, and next term Mr. Pembroke was to take his place.

Such were the themes on which Mr. Pembroke discoursed to Rickie’s civil

ear. He showed him the school, and the library, and the subterranean

hall where the day-boys might leave their coats and caps, and where,

on festal occasions, they supped. He showed him Mr. Jackson’s pretty

house, and whispered, “Were it not for his brilliant intellect, it

would be a case of Quickmarch!” He showed him the racquet-court,

happily completed, and the chapel, unhappily still in need of funds.

Rickie was impressed, but then he was impressed by everything. Of

course a House of day-boys seemed a little shadowy after Agnes and

Gerald, but he imparted some reality even to that.

“The racquet-court,” said Mr. Pembroke, “is most gratifying. We never

expected to manage it this year. But before the Easter holidays every

boy received a subscription card, and was given to understand that he

must collect thirty shillings. You will scarcely believe me, but they

nearly all responded. Next term there was a dinner in the great school,

and all who had collected, not thirty shillings, but as much as a

pound, were invited to it—for naturally one was not precise for a few

shillings, the response being the really valuable thing. Practically

the whole school had to come.”

“They must enjoy the court tremendously.”

“Ah, it isn’t used very much. Racquets, as I daresay you know, is

rather an expensive game. Only the wealthier boys play—and I’m

sorry to say that it is not of our wealthier boys that we are always

the proudest. But the point is that no public school can be called

first-class until it has one. They are building them right and left.”

“And now you must finish the chapel?”

“Now we must complete the chapel.” He paused reverently, and said, “And

here is a fragment of the original building.” Rickie at once had a rush

of sympathy. He, too, looked with reverence at the morsel of Jacobean

brickwork, ruddy and beautiful amidst the machine-squared stones of the

modern apse. The two men, who had so little in common, were thrilled

with patriotism. They rejoiced that their country was great, noble, and

old.

“Thank God I’m English,” said Rickie suddenly.

“Thank Him indeed,” said Mr. Pembroke, laying a hand on his back.

“We’ve been nearly as great as the Greeks, I do believe. Greater, I’m

sure, than the Italians, though they did get closer to beauty. Greater

than the French, though we do take all their ideas. I can’t help

thinking that England is immense. English literature certainly.”

Mr. Pembroke removed his hand. He found such patriotism somewhat

craven. Genuine patriotism comes only from the heart. It knows no

parleying with reason. English ladies will declare abroad that there

are no fogs in London, and Mr. Pembroke, though he would not go to

this, was only restrained by the certainty of being found out. On this

occasion he remarked that the Greeks lacked spiritual insight, and had

a low conception of woman.

“As to women—oh! there they were dreadful,” said Rickie, leaning his

hand on the chapel. “I realize that more and more. But as to spiritual

insight, I don’t quite like to say; and I find Plato too difficult, but

I know men who don’t, and I fancy they mightn’t agree with you.”

“Far be it from me to disparage Plato. And for philosophy as a whole I

have the greatest respect. But it is the crown of a man’s education,

not the foundation. Myself, I read it with the utmost profit, but I

have known endless trouble result from boys who attempt it too soon,

before they were set.”

“But if those boys had died first,” cried Rickie with sudden vehemence,

“without knowing what there is to know—”

“Or isn’t to know!” said Mr. Pembroke sarcastically.

“Or what there isn’t to know. Exactly. That’s it.”

“My dear Rickie, what do you mean? If an old friend may be frank,

you are talking great rubbish.” And, with a few well-worn formulae,

he propped up the young man’s orthodoxy. The props were unnecessary.

Rickie had his own equilibrium. Neither the Revivalism that assails

a boy at about the age of fifteen, nor the scepticism that meets him

five years later, could sway him from his allegiance to the church

into which he had been born. But his equilibrium was personal, and the

secret of it useless to others. He desired that each man should find

his own.

“What does philosophy do?” the propper continued. “Does it make a man

happier in life? Does it make him die more peacefully? I fancy that in

the long-run Herbert Spencer will get no further than the rest of us.

Ah, Rickie! I wish you could move among the school boys, and see their

healthy contempt for all they cannot touch!” Here he was going too far,

and had to add, “Their spiritual capacities, of course, are another

matter.” Then he remembered the Greeks, and said, “Which proves my

original statement.”

Submissive signs, as of one propped, appeared in Rickie’s face.

Mr. Pembroke then questioned him about the men who found Plato not

difficult. But here he kept silence, patting the school chapel gently,

and presently the conversation turned to topics with which they were

both more competent to deal.

“Does Agnes take much interest in the school?”

“Not as much as she did. It is the result of her engagement. If our

naughty soldier had not carried her off, she might have made an ideal

schoolmaster’s wife. I often chaff him about it, for he a little

despises the intellectual professions. Natural, perfectly natural. How

can a man who faces death feel as we do towards _mensa_ or _tupto_?”

“Perfectly true. Absolutely true.”

Mr. Pembroke remarked to himself that Frederick was improving.

“If a man shoots straight and hits straight and speaks straight, if his

heart is in the right place, if he has the instincts of a Christian

and a gentleman—then I, at all events, ask no better husband for my

sister.”

“How could you get a better?” he cried. “Do you remember the thing in

‘The Clouds’?” And he quoted, as well as he could, from the invitation

of the Dikaios Logos, the description of the young Athenian, perfect

in body, placid in mind, who neglects his work at the Bar and trains

all day among the woods and meadows, with a garland on his head and

a friend to set the pace; the scent of new leaves is upon them; they

rejoice in the freshness of spring; over their heads the plane-tree

whispers to the elm, perhaps the most glorious invitation to the

brainless life that has ever been given.

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Pembroke, who did not want a brother-in-law out of

Aristophanes. Nor had he got one, for Mr. Dawes would not have bothered

over the garland or noticed the spring, and would have complained that

the friend ran too slowly or too fast.

“And as for her—!” But he could think of no classical parallel for

Agnes. She slipped between examples. A kindly Medea, a Cleopatra with

a sense of duty—these suggested her a little. She was not born in

Greece, but came overseas to it—a dark, intelligent princess. With all

her splendour, there were hints of splendour still hidden—hints of an

older, richer, and more mysterious land. He smiled at the idea of her

being “not there.” Ansell, clever as he was, had made a bad blunder.

She had more reality than any other woman in the world.

Mr. Pembroke looked pleased at this boyish enthusiasm. He was fond

of his sister, though he knew her to be full of faults. “Yes, I envy

her,” he said. “She has found a worthy helpmeet for life’s journey,

I do believe. And though they chafe at the long engagement, it is a

blessing in disguise. They learn to know each other thoroughly before

contracting more intimate ties.”

Rickie did not assent. The length of the engagement seemed to him

unspeakably cruel. Here were two people who loved each other, and they

could not marry for years because they had no beastly money. Not all

Herbert’s pious skill could make this out a blessing. It was bad enough

being “so rich” at the Silts; here he was more ashamed of it than ever.

In a few weeks he would come of age and his money be his own. What a

pity things were so crookedly arranged. He did not want money, or at

all events he did not want so much.

“Suppose,” he meditated, for he became much worried over

this,—“suppose I had a hundred pounds a year less than I shall have.

Well, I should still have enough. I don’t want anything but food,

lodging, clothes, and now and then a railway fare. I haven’t any

tastes. I don’t collect anything or play games. Books are nice to

have, but after all there is Mudie’s, or if it comes to that, the Free

Library. Oh, my profession! I forgot I shall have a profession. Well,

that will leave me with more to spare than ever.” And he supposed

away till he lost touch with the world and with what it permits, and

committed an unpardonable sin.

It happened towards the end of his visit—another airless day of that

mild January. Mr. Dawes was playing against a scratch team of cads, and

had to go down to the ground in the morning to settle something. Rickie

proposed to come too.

Hitherto he had been no nuisance. “You will be frightfully bored,” said

Agnes, observing the cloud on her lover’s face. “And Gerald walks like

a maniac.”

“I had a little thought of the Museum this morning,” said Mr. Pembroke.

“It is very strong in flint arrow-heads.”

“Ah, that’s your line, Rickie. I do envy you and Herbert the way you

enjoy the past.”

“I almost think I’ll go with Dawes, if he’ll have me. I can walk quite

fast just to the ground and back. Arrowheads are wonderful, but I don’t

really enjoy them yet, though I hope I shall in time.”

Mr. Pembroke was offended, but Rickie held firm.

In a quarter of an hour he was back at the house alone, nearly crying.

“Oh, did the wretch go too fast?” called Miss Pembroke from her bedroom

window.

“I went too fast for him.” He spoke quite sharply, and before he had

time to say he was sorry and didn’t mean exactly that, the window had

shut.

“They’ve quarrelled,” she thought. “Whatever about?”